


Remember This When You're Sober

by totally_loca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totally_loca/pseuds/totally_loca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com">kink meme</a> prompt:<br/>Enjolras gets seriously drunk, and tells Grantaire (who is his usual level of drunk) that he really does like him and his pretty hair and stupid opinions, then tries to kiss him. Even though it causes him actual, physical pain, Grantaire turns him down as he has a stupid conscience (that sounds a lot like Enjolras) that makes him do stupid things like a stupid head rather than just letting him get what he wants for once. Cue awkwardness and ~feelings~ when Enjolras sobers up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember This When You're Sober

Enjolras face-planted onto the sofa next to Grantaire, shuffling haphazardly until his face was pressed into the other’s thigh. Grantaire laughed softly and threaded his free hand through Enjolras’ blond curls, lazily raising his near empty wine bottle to his lips for a swallow. The boy in his lap let out a sound that could only be classified as a purr as Grantaire continued to card his hair through deft fingers. “My God, you are so drunk, Apollo.” The dark haired boy laughed.  
Enjolras struggled to turn over, his limbs weighed down by the unfamiliarity of his drunkenness. When he finally managed it he glowered up at Grantaire blearily and slurred belligerently, “So are you”.  
Grantaire laughed again and smoothed the curls out of the blond’s eyes, “Aaah, but when am I not?”  
“True,” Enjolras agreed easily for once and let it go, nudging his head up against Grantaire’s hand in an obvious request for him to continue his petting, his eyes falling shut as Grantaire acquiesced.

They were silent for a long moment, Grantaire gazing down at the younger boy with a mix of amusement and reverence. Enjolras drunk was a rare sight to behold and him so drunk that he stayed still long enough to be petted rarer still. The moment broke when Enjolras’ eyes snapped open and caught Grantaire’s for a second before Grantaire glanced away. Enjolras frowned and reached up with clumsy carefulness to touch the boy’s face. He’d been aiming for his cheek but his fingers collided with his chin. It still had the intended effect because the older boy looked down at him again.  
“You have such pretty hair,” Enjolras mumbled, the words tumbling from his mouth slow like molasses.  
Grantaire blinked.  
“All curly, and _dark_ ,” The other boy continued, his hand slipping around Grantaire’s neck to play with the curls there, “’s better than mine.”  
Grantaire gulped and then gulped down another mouthful of wine before replying. “Your hair is like spun gold, Apollo.”  
“’m not Apollo. Not a god,” He frowned. “And your hair _is_ better,” he insisted, pulling on it a little for emphasis.  
Grantaire laughed softly again. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree like usual.” The smile he bestowed on the boy in his lap was only slightly bitter.  
Enjolras’ frown deepened at his words. “I hate that we do.” The words slipped past his lips so quietly Grantaire almost missed them but he didn’t and his smile turned rueful. The next words that fell from Enjolras’ lips brought him up short though.  
“But like your pretty hair I _like_ your _stupid_ opinions too.” The blond boy looked like he couldn’t wrap his mind around this thought. Grantaire felt very much the same. “I like when you argue with me. Even when I think they’re stupid your comments make me think. _You’re_ not stupid, R, you’re actually kind of brilliant.” As he finished his sentence Enjolras locked eyes with Grantaire, fire blazing in his orbs as though he was convincing a crowd.  
Grantaire stared down at him, his mouth open in disbelief before it snapped shut with a wry laugh. “You are so drunk.” He repeated.

Enjolras swung himself upright violently so he was sat next to the other boy, their faces level. His eyes still blazed but now with anger. “So?” he challenged. “You’ve made the argument many times that your level of sobriety has no bearing on your convictions so why should mine be any different?!”  
The blond’s words were passionate but there was still a slur to them and so Grantaire smiled at the riled-up boy and tucked a curl behind his ear. He left his hand there for a moment, basking in the liberties that Enjolras was allowing.  
“Why?” persisted Enjolras, wanting a proper answer, but nuzzling his face into Grantaire’s palm unthinkingly even while glaring at him.  
Grantaire sighed and let his hand fall, looking away. “Because drunk is an anomaly for you.”  
The fight drained out of Enjolras and he slumped down onto Grantaire’s shoulder, going pliant once more. “I’m drunk and that’s strange,” he agreed. “But you _are_ brilliant. And I really, really do like you,” he said petulantly. 

The darker boy didn’t acknowledge his words, just took another drink. When he went to take a second mouthful he found himself kissing the back of Enjolras’ hand where it was blocking the bottle. Enjolras giggled into his shoulder and Grantaire tilted his face down to regard the other boy with eyebrows raised amusedly. “Really? That’s how you’re stopping me drinking?” he questioned, lowering the bottle.  
Enjolras straightened up again and plucked the bottle from his loose grasp, placing it with concentrated precision on the table in front of them. “Really.” He confirmed, gazing up back at the older boy and reaching out to cup his face. Grantaire was frozen, eyes darting around Enjolras’ face warily. Enjolras leant in slowly and brushed his lips against Grantaire’s. He pulled back only far enough to whisper, “I like you, R,” before kissing him again, a questing tongue brushing the boy’s lower lip insistently. Grantaire groaned and Enjolras took advantage of that to plunder his mouth.

Grantaire allowed it for a moment dazedly before the voice in the back of his head made itself known. His conscience sounded scarily like the sober version of the boy who was currently trying to conquer him in ways he had rarely allowed himself to imagine. With another groan, Grantaire’s hands brushed up Enjolras’ chest and gently pushed him away. The noise of displeasure Enjolras made had him closing his eyes against the sheer amount of pain he felt at making him stop. But even with how much he wanted the boy before him, what he’d told Enjolras still held; drunk for the blond was an anomaly. He just couldn’t, not if there was the slightest chance Enjolras would regret it. 

Enjolras looked like he couldn’t believe Grantaire was pushing him away. He tried to move closer again but Grantaire was stronger even when Enjolras wasn’t intoxicated and the dark haired boy held him at bay easily. His face crumpled as he whined, “But you _like_ me. And _I_ like you. I don’t understand.” He stopped trying to get back in Grantaire’s personal space and fell against the sofa arm with a huff when Grantaire remained unmoving. “I don’t understand.” He pouted.  
Grantaire softened and leant forward to press a chaste kiss to the blond boy’s forehead. “If you truly mean what you say, then not while you’re drunk.” The words were murmured into Enjolras’ ear before Grantaire placed a fond kiss to the tender skin behind said ear. Grantaire pushed off the sofa, snagging his bottle as he left hoping vainly that its remains or the contents of the next one he found would numb the ache rejecting the beautiful boy staring after him had caused. Damn everything. 

The next morning Enjolras groaned pitifully and blinked awake to a face-full of sofa cushions. He frowned at them before rolling over, moaning at the pain shooting through his skull at the movement. Another groan escaped when he caught sight of Courfeyrac perched on the arm of the closest armchair, grinning at him around a mug of tea. “Morning sunshine,” Courfeyrac chirped, laughing obnoxiously when Enjolras moaned once more and covered his face with his arm. “There’s water and paracetamol courtesy of Combeferre on the table next to you.” Courfeyrac informed him, his laughter lilting his voice.  
Enjolras sat up slowly and gulped down the water and tablets gratefully. He sank back into cushions and closed his eyes again. “Oh God,” he whined, “How much did I drink last night?”  
Courfeyrac laughed loudly again, but when he spoke his voice was uncharacteristically sober. “Enough that you tried to kiss Grantaire.”  
Enjolras’ eyes shot open and he turned to stare at his friend, ignoring the pain doing so caused him. Courfeyrac stared back evenly.  
“Shit.” Enjolras breathed out, memories of crashing down on to the sofa next to the artist and the conversation that followed flooding back to him.  
Courfeyrac watched as Enjolras’ face coloured as he remembered the kiss. He stood and clapped Enjolras gently on the shoulder. “Don’t hurt him,” he warned before leaving the blond to his contemplation.

Enjolras avoided Grantaire for the rest of the day surprisingly well considering they lived in the same house. His luck ran out later that evening when he came down to the kitchen to grab a fresh cup of tea and found Grantaire listlessly watching an omelette cook. The blond froze in the doorway, debating which was stronger; his desire to avoid the other boy or his need for tea. This resulted in him lingering awkwardly until the decision was made for him by Grantaire turning to grab a plate and catching sight of him. They both froze, staring at each other until Grantaire swallowed audibly.  
“Enjolras. And how is our dear leader’s head this evening?” The gently mocking tone was familiar but not quite Grantaire’s usual standard and Enjolras grimaced at the awkward tension between them.  
“Fine,” he gritted out, the unfamiliarity of the situation he found himself in making the word come out harsher than he intended. Grantaire’s expression faltered for a split second before he nodded, grabbing the plate he needed to rescue his omelette and returning to his food, ignoring the other boy. Enjolras floundered for something to say but before he could summon anything Grantaire had slipped silently past him and disappeared down to his room. 

The pattern of awkwardness continued for the next few days, at least on Enjolras’ part. After Grantaire’s initial flinch in the kitchen he carried on as though their encounter on the sofa had never happened. 

Enjolras woke with a start around 2am five days after that night, “ _if you truly mean what you say, then not while you’re drunk_ ” echoing through his mind. He flopped back into his pillows and scrubbed a hand down his face. He was grateful for the respite but he still felt awkward and annoyed around the other boy. He remembered everything he’d said and all of Grantaire’s responses. He even understood the boy’s reasoning for pushing him away but he didn’t know what to do or how to approach him. Even when, now that he was sober, he still believed what he’d said, he did like Grantaire and his hair and his opinions. He knew he was grateful to Grantaire for not accepting his drunken advances, but he couldn’t get the feel of his lips under his own out of his mind, which made looking at the boy uncomfortable. 

A sigh escaped him, the noise loud in the dark and he kicked his covers off frustrated. He’d just have to talk to Grantaire because he wasn’t going to sleep again until he’d resolved this. It would either blow up in his face or end up in sex, which he admitted out loud wasn’t something he’d be averse to. Knowing how he and Grantaire interacted it would probably do both but it would hopefully stop Courfeyrac and Jehan giving him puppy-dog eyes and Éponine and Cosette glowering at him. Grantaire wasn’t likely to be asleep at this time anyway.

Enjolras’ suspicion about Grantaire being awake was confirmed as he made his way down the basement stairs. Base thrummed out of the artist’s closed door. A glance at Bahorel’s room confirmed the other boy wasn’t there, most likely up in Feuilly’s, hence how loud Grantaire’s music was. Enjolras knocked quietly, not expecting to be heard, and pushed the door open. The sight that greeted him made him smile but also made his heart ache. The dark haired boy was clad only in an old pair of paint splattered sweatpants, his back to the door, decorating a canvas with charcoal. The image flowing from the boy’s talented fingers was dark, not solely due to his medium of choice, an abstract that was both heartbreaking and beautiful. 

The blond slipped silently into room and across to Grantaire’s mattress where it was shoved in the corner of the room almost as an afterthought. Grantaire’s room was more of a studio than a bedroom with canvases and sketchbooks littered around and the walls covered in frequently white-washed murals. At one time or another paintings of each of their friends had decorated Grantaire’s walls; at the moment Combeferre was spinning a laughing Éponine around above the mattress while Enjolras himself lectured Joly and Bossuet who were clearly not paying attention on the wall opposite. Enjolras was content to watch the boy work until he noticed him. He knew Grantaire would hate it but didn’t want to interrupt and couldn’t leave. 

Grantaire dropped the charcoal carelessly when he finished and his whole body seemed to slump forward. He stayed like that for a long moment before breathing in deeply and turning round. He started when he saw Enjolras on his bed and stared at him silently. Dark circles ringed his eyes and there were smudges of charcoal across his cheeks and down his arms and chest. He looked exhausted and all Enjolras wanted to do was hug him, a feeling that was more common that he’d ever admitted. Instead he glanced back to the artwork Grantaire had just finished. “It’s beautiful.” He nodded at the canvas but jerked his head back to look at Grantaire when the boy let out a derisive snort. “It is.” He insisted, getting up and carefully approaching him. The darker boy looked like a skittish colt.

Enjolras stopped a couple of feet away from Grantaire and shifted his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting uncharacteristically. Grantaire focused his gaze on Enjolras’ bare feet, refusing to meet his eyes. Enjolras took a deep breath and released the words “I meant it” in his exhale.  
Grantaire’s head shot up and his eyes narrowed at the blond.  
“I meant it.” Enjolras repeated, taking a step closer, holding Grantaire’s gaze. “I like you.”  
Grantaire’s eyes widened and then flitted away, darting helplessly around his room. “It’s like half 2, you’re sleep-deprived,” he said weakly.  
Enjolras made a show of glancing at his watch. “It is 2:40 actually,” he corrected, “and I am _not_ sleep-deprived. I’m not drunk either and I know what I’m saying. I knew what I was saying then too.” He paused and closed the gap between them, grasping Grantaire’s chin gently and tilting his face so their eyes met. He was gratified to see what he hoped was belief spark in Grantaire’s eyes. “But you were right to stop me. Sober _is_ my normal and you deserve that. I _like_ you, R,” he reiterated firmly.  
“Like you like my pretty hair and stupid opinions?” Grantaire asked, his voice still meek but with a hint of his usual teasing and a smirk beginning on his lips.  
Enjolras felt a small relieved smile break out across his face. “I do like your pretty hair.” He shifted his hand to pull on the dark curls in question. “Not so much your opinions, more the challenge they present.” At that his smile shifted into a smirk and Grantaire chuffed out a laugh. 

The older boy cautiously settled his hands onto Enjolras’ waist, fingers slipping under his t-shirt and resting gently. Enjolras nudged closer still, knocking their hips together as his free hand latched onto Grantaire’s shoulder. He secured his other hand more tightly into Grantaire’s curls and, after searching the boy’s face, used that grip to bring their lips together. This time Grantaire reciprocated eagerly.


End file.
